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I texted back, You need to hire better people, but if Leon saw it, he didn’t respond. I guessed he was busy, which totally sucked. I hadn’t seen much of Leon since he met his new girl. He was always either out with her or hustling for work. I’d been looking forward to tonight with him, watching the game.
With Leon not coming, I was all good on snacks, so I paid for my pretzels and drove back to the house. It felt big and lonely with nobody home, no smells from the kitchen, no chatter, no life. I put on the TV for company and stretched out on the couch. A sports show came on and I turned it up.
I honestly, uh, at the start of this season — if you’d asked me if the Ice Bears had a shot at the playoffs, my answer to you would’ve been “what’s an ice bear?” That’s how much I thought of them. They were not on my radar.
But, Spencer Nash?—
Yeah, he has talent. But the thing with Nash is, he isn’t consistent. You’ve got your core players, your workhorse come-through types, the ones you can count on the same every night. Then you’ve got players like Nash — they have their moments, but when you look at career stats, that’s where they fizzle.
But wouldn’t you say this is more than a moment? This is a bona-fide hot streak, and it’s all been on Spencer.
Well, all Spencer, I wouldn’t say. It’s never one player. But I’ll admit?—
“Oh, shut up.” I muted the commentary and watched the outtakes, Spencer hitting a slapshot. Spencer yelling at the air. Spencer raging down the rink in a swirl of ice dust. Soon, it was time for the game to begin.
In a way, it was easier watching without Leon. I’d been self-conscious since his comments that one night, Uh-uh, there’s something… You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you? Without Leon looming, I could watch like I wanted, all of my focus squarely on Spencer. He was on his game tonight, the best I’d seen him. Peak power, technique second to none. Watching him left me breathless, the way he ruled the ice.
“Get ’em!” I screamed. Spencer lunged for the puck. He roared down the ice like a runaway Mack truck. Nothing could stop him. My insides felt floaty. Everything was all right with us. Everything was perfect. How could it not be, with him playing like this? I must have imagined the weirdness between us, that strange, gaping distance when I asked him to dinner. He must’ve been tired, was all, resting up for the game. Saving his energy for this sublime performance.
And he gets the puck, it’s Spencer Nash. Parham comes in, Parham on defense, now it’s Parham and Jimenez, they’ve got him, they— No! Nash breaks through. He’s flying. He’s, I tell you tonight, something about him, he’s untouchable. He’s— oh, Martin Blount comes in, he’s going for the intercept. But Nash doesn’t pass. What, what, he’s, NO! He shoots straight through Blount’s legs, and NO WAY, IT’S IN! HE SCORES! NASH SCORES! My God, Spencer Nash!
I was screaming right along with the hysterical announcer, losing my mind at Spencer’s long-shot goal. He was audacious tonight, bolder than I’d ever seen him. Like he knew this was his night, and nothing could touch him.
My pretzels sat untouched in their bowl on the table, my beer beside them. I was caught in the deepest of fan superstitions — the kind where your team gets on a hot streak, and you can’t change what you’re doing or you might break the spell. The kind of superstition that births lucky shirts, or not washing your car all through the season. You know in your head there’s no connection. The dirt on your car won’t keep your team winning. But your heart says it will, so your car stays disgusting. And when your team does win?—
Spencer smashed in another goal.
I jumped up and screamed.
It was real for the two of us. He’d said it himself. I was his lucky charm and he was on fire, and I couldn’t move from the edge of my seat. I couldn’t take my eyes off him or reach for a pretzel. Couldn’t go to the bathroom. Couldn’t look at my phone. I couldn’t do anything that wasn’t cheering him on. Not that I wanted to.
“Go, go, go…”
He was brutal. Enthralling. A hockey machine. And, God, he was hot. He was sex in a can. His raw power, his drive, those steel-coiled thighs?—
And he is merciless! That’s Spencer Nash! Their defense can’t touch him. It’s like he’s got— oh! What’s going on now? It’s Jimenez, and he’s flailing. I think someone bumped him. I think he’s— OH! He slams into Nash, and?—
I gasped so hard I choked on my own spit. Scrambled up coughing, grabbing for the remote. I don’t know what I was thinking, that I could rewind? Somehow undo that terrible impact, Jimenez hitting Spencer. Spencer hitting the ice. Both of them sliding, and then it was Parham, windmilling wildly as they slid in his path.
I hollered, hoarse. “No!”
Parham dropped his stick. He flew into Spencer. Tripped over him and sprawled over Jimenez. It happened so fast, in the span of a second, but it felt like forever stretched on the ice. Spencer lay there forever, not moving, or was he? I couldn’t see for the team crowding in.
“Move,” I screamed. “Move it!”
I tried to see through the forest of legs, but how were there suddenly so many players? There had to be dozens, fifty, a hundred. Men swarming everywhere, over the ice.
“Come on, get up.” I clenched my fists tight. “Please be okay, Spencer, please…”
A whistle blew, shrill. The players dispersed. All the breath shuddered out of me. Spencer wasn’t moving. Red caught my eye — was that blood on the ice? Or, please, please, please, only a painted red line?
“You’re okay,” I whispered. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
Medics came hustling onto the ice. I tried to swallow, but my throat had clenched up. The announcer was breathless, narrating it all.
And Nash is down. It doesn’t look like he’s moving. I can’t see?—
“Shut up!” I groped for the remote and grabbed my phone instead. The screen lit up and I stared at it. Who could I call? There had to be someone, some way to help him. Something to do besides sit on my ass.
